


You Always Bring Me Home

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Butlerdad, Explosions, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Patrol Gone Wrong, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: When Batman is caught by an explosion he calls the person who can always find him, Alfred.





	You Always Bring Me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).



The halls of Gotham U’s science building were dim, but lit as per city required standards. Every few sets of fluorescent lights were lit dimly, humming with power. A storm raged outside, it’s lightning adding bursts of light to the hallways every so often. It left enough shadows for Batman to lurk in, and scattered spots of light revealing the men and women using the building’s equipment to build a device intended to siphon off Gotham’s electricity and turn it into a weapon.

Bruce didn’t expect the fight to be much more than him showing up and terrifying the people within. Nights of observation had proven that they had little, if any real security. They were mostly students who’d had a good idea turned bad. They were in over their heads and distracted by the comfort of being somewhere they felt safe.

At least that’s what Bruce had assumed. He had no idea how he’d missed the upped security, armed guards, and hovering men in black. His best guess had the kids being found out by someone with less honorable designs than Batman, and made an offer they hadn’t refused.

What should have been a good life altering spook turned into a firefight with little care for the students caught in the middle of the mess, kids who’d messed up, but hadn’t yet done anything to make them deserve being riddled with bullets.

He dove for the kids, shoving heads down below tables and hissing at them not to move. He wasted half his attention trying to make sure they followed that order, more attempting to fight off the guards, and the rest trying to keep the device out of the hands of the men sent to make sure it stayed safe.

Disaster was bound to strike. A bullet hit a large series of pressurized canisters and started air seeping. Burners were knocked over, sparking flames, and Bruce could feel the air buzzing with danger. He turned his attention to shooing the students from the room, dragging one to toss out with a growled, “Go.”

His head was light from the leaking gas filling the room with white smoke, but he pressed on to get the device back, chasing the men in black through the room and down the hall.

It was chasing them into the hall that saved him.

The room exploded behind them, heat burning at Bruce’s back even through cape and Kevlar. He was thrown forward with the force of the explosion, and sent tumbling and rolling down the hall as the building caved in on itself.

He landed in a heap of aches and pain. One ankle throbbed already from where it had twisted and pulled in the wrong angle when he’d been thrown. Bruce had a few seconds to radio in to Alfred that he needed extraction before a wave of smoke hit him and everything started to crash down. A steel bar from one of the walls tumbled, landing across his chest and one arm, still partially connected to concrete and building.

He pushed at it, but couldn’t get the leverage he needed to make it budge from it’s moors. His head throbbed, his vision blurry even against dust settling all around him. There were still emergency lights flickering above, flashing and crackling like lightning.

Another boom rattled him, shaking the floor, and his body, rumbling in his chest. The next moment sprinklers, still somehow above him flashed on, flooding over him and the hallway.

Bruce lay there blinking up at the sprinklers and flickering lights, his cowl lenses protecting him from the drip and drizzle of liquid. He reached his good hand up and pulled his cowl back, in a silly desire that it might make breathing easier. Water rained down on his face, rhythmic and massaging almost in the face of everything that ached.

He came to as metal screeched against stone. He found he could breathe, his tingly arm flopping off his chest to the tile under him. A flashlight beamed down at him, making Bruce squint, sudden sharp tears mingled with water still flowing down from above.

The light pulled away, and a blurry form leaned down, growing clearer in the flickering light. Alfred. Water dribbled from his hair, and down his face as he looked over Bruce, his eyes and hands worried.

Hands pulled at him, shifting Bruce and relighting fires across his torso. They forced him up, and tugged one arm around Alfred’s shoulders in a tight grip.

Slouching upright set fire to his chest. An attempt at pressure on his left foot set his vision to white, and any help he’d been offering fled as Bruce’s body felt limp. A buzz of pain seemed to take his muscles, loosening them from his desires to set them afloat like the particles of dust dancing in the flashlight’s beam. Alfred’s arm around him tightened, hand holding his wrist like iron.

“Al.” he rasped.

“It’s alright, Master Bruce.” The man soothed.

Bruce felt a sob building in his chest. A boom from behind them rattled it, shaking it from Bruce’s lips in a hiccuped noise.

He was twelve again, running through mud, letting it splash up onto his pressed school pants, and soil his nice shiny loafers. The water washed gel from his hair faster than it took him to make it from manor to forest, and turned his shirt transparent everywhere but the embroidered school patch on his chest.

  
He wanted to listen to the storm as it roared overhead, wanted the shake and rattle in his chest, and to feel the rain pelt his face. He started climbing the closest tree with strong branches. He’d hardly started when lightning flickered, flashed, and crackled. The air burned with ozone and Bruce’s hands burned, shocked.

He yelped, and fell, snapping his ankle as he landed. He curled in on himself and sobbed. Mud stained his shirt and dirtied his cheek. He lay there, cold and shaking until Alfred found him.

He could make out Alfred’s voice muttering something but his brain refused to piece it together. He wanted to apologize. To tell Al how sorry he was for running out in the rain and ignoring his wishes. He hadn’t meant to get lost in the forest. He hadn’t intended on slipping and falling or of breaking his ankle and burning his hands.

His chest hurt, and so did his head. He made a sound, wanting to apologize, but instead he let himself float. He tried to help Alfred carry him, putting pressure on a foot that turned his vision to white and sparkling dots of light. He sucked in a second sob and let that foot drag, pushing with the other instead.

“Come along, we are almost there.” Alfred’s voice hurried him on.

They moved faster, Bruce wishing he could do more while Alfred did the heavy lifting. A stumble and he tipped, carrying Alfred with him into something hard, but not rough like tree bark, smooth with jagged broken pieces. His head bounced off shattered sheet rock, puffing dust, and doubling the throbbing ache in his head.

Alfred pulled him up, and Bruce swayed, something roaring and rushing in his head until he gave in at last and let it overtake him again. He was only out for a few seconds, long enough for Alfred to have them moving again.

The stumbling pain seemed to go on forever, broken hallways that sometimes seemed like long stretches of dark rain drenched forest. His world faded into the next step. The next fogged stretch of hallway, the next pain pushed step in muddy dirt. All the while Alfred’s voice carrying him along like a life preserver Bruce was haphazardly flung over.

He passed out for real when they reached the car. A moment after Alfred pushed him into a seat with more effort than Bruce wished he’d needed, he let his eyes flicker closed Alfred’s dark form silhouetted by a flash of bright light.

He was six. Bored and out of interesting things to do by his mother’s side while she talked on and on and on with some man. He snuck away from them and into the closest room to explore. Inside he found a long table surrounded by large, plush, wheelie chairs. Normally Bruce might stop at the chairs, spinning around and around in them until someone came to find him. But today he was distracted.

A huge window took up the back half of the room. The glass dark as the sky outside. That did not stop Bruce running for it, plastering his hands against the cool glass, and staring wide eyed out it.

He was so high up, he felt like he could see everything. The city was darker than it had been when they’d come in, wrapped in the heavy gloom of rain. Lights glittered from buildings inside and out, making raindrops glitter as they sped past in sheets. Under Bruce’s fingers the glass vibrated and shook as rain pelted it. Then stronger as thunder roared through the sky like a hundred fireworks popping at once.

Bruce’s whole body shook with the thunder, riding it out in wave after crashing wave as it played of itself singing it’s own song through the sky. It was thrilling. And terrifying. Nature booming and crashing and forcing Bruce’s heart to follow its pattern.

“There you are my darling.” Mother’s voice said, approaching him, “What are you doing?”

“Watching the storm.” Bruce said, eyes glued still on the window.

“And is it a good storm?”

“The best.” Bruce pulled his attention away long enough to smile at her.

She smiled back and took one of his hands, peeling it from the glass, to hold in hers. Together they’d stood a while longer to watch before she’d ushered him out and into the rest of their day.

He woke slowly as voices chattered around him. They echoed and bounced, sounding distant. Bruce turned his head to find them. Moving was a bad idea, his head throbbed, his vision blurring and doubling. He didn’t want to move the rest of him, he was pretty sure if he, did he’d make the pain radiating across his body double or triple with irritation.

Bruce closed his eyes and listened to the voices. Focusing on them alone let him pick out their individual voices. Alfred, Dick, and Tim were in the room. The discussion wasn’t about important things only about how weeks went, patrol stories, and Dick’s apartment. The familiarity of their voices was soothing, lulling him back to sleep.

He came in and out of consciousness to different voices and different faces for what felt like forever. Bruce had a feeling Alfred had upped his pain killers to keep him resting. They both knew Bruce would push himself back into the case the moment he could.

When he woke to find the man’s worried face hovering over him, Bruce knew he’d been right. He felt a surge of guilt trace the pain as he realized how much worry he’d caused Alfred. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Alfred stopped him with a hand on his head, fingers brushing his hair back, a soft smile replacing the naked worry he’d had moments ago.

Bruce dreamed of storms. He dreamed again of his broken ankle and the lightning strike. Of the evening afterwords. Even a broken ankle hadn’t stopped Bruce from wanting to watch storms. It kept him inside, but that was fine. Of all the manor’s large windows, the best was that of the living room, who’s windows overlooked a well lit area.

Bruce huddled under a table, watching the storm late at night, counting out booms of thunder and flashes of lightning on a little notepad.

It was only a few minutes of Bruce watching, hoping for another burst of lightning, before the lights flickered on and made him blink. Through spots he saw the familiar face of Alfred, peering down at him.

“There you are, Master Bruce.” he said, “Why are you not in your room?”

Bruce glanced at the dark glass of the windows, “I wanted to watch.” he said, answer hesitant.

Alfred had not been happy about his broken ankle. Nor about Bruce running outside in the middle of a thunderstorm. Bruce had kept quiet about storms after that. This one had lured him out with it’s ferocity, and it had been late enough at night he figured Alfred would sleep through it.

The butler gave him a single nod, “I see.”

Another boom of thunder seemed to shake the room, Bruce’s chest along with it. He had the sudden need to not be alone, but at the same time he did not want to give up his count. He decided to extend the olive branch, “Would you like to watch it with me? I have been taking down information, and I could use a partner.”

Alfred smiled at his request, “I would love to.” he paused, “I believe I will need a restorative against the storm. What do you think of enjoying cocoa while we watch?”

It was a bargain Bruce found himself happy to agree to. Alfred lit a few of the candles in the room ‘for ambiance’ and turned out the large lights before leaving. While he waited on the butler’s return, Bruce resumed his vigil under the table, and filled out his missing tally marks.

Bruce saw Alfred’s return as dark shoes lit by flickering fire light. He knelt by the table, with two mugs of cream topped cocoa held carefully in one hand, and an honest to goodness lantern in the other.

“I thought this would add to the show.” he explained, handing Bruce a mug.

He took it, cradling it’s warmth between his palms and grinned, “It’s perfect. Thanks, Al.”

“May I join you down there, or would you rather come out?” Alfred asked.

He motioned for Alfred to join him, and scooted over to make room. Soon Alfred lay beside him, propped up on his elbows and sipping at his cocoa. They both lay there through the storm, snuggled and close the rest of the night.

Bruce came to full wakefulness in his bed. He had no memory of being moved there, or even helped to move there. A quick stock of his pain levels told him he’d been out for longer than he’d care to have been if he’d had a say in anything. His mind was clearer than it had been since the explosion.

None of that meant it didn’t hurt to move. Bruce had a feeling whatever gas had been floating around in that building, and adrenaline had made him ignorant of how bad things had actually been. His whole body felt like an ache. His chest had sharp pains lancing it when he breathed, his ankle still throbbed despite a heavy cast over it, and while his head no longer felt like it was rushing, it still pounded painfully.

At least no bright sunlight was filtering in to make everything worse. The blackout curtains weren’t pulled all the way shut, so Bruce could see bits of grayed landscape through them. Overcast was a good thing to wake up to, peaceful in it’s dimness.

He turned his head to catch sight of the clock. He blinked at the fuzzy red light until it cleared into legible digital numbers that told him it was the middle of the day almost two days after the explosion. Bruce groaned.

The door swung open, pulling Bruce’s still somewhat blurry attention up to it. Alfred walked in carrying a tray with two mugs, and a book atop it. His face brightened when he saw Bruce blinking at him.

“It’s good to see you awake.” Alfred said, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck then backed over and hit again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It really only was a single truck’s worth of school building to hit you.”

Bruce groaned, “You try being hit by it and not being a bit dramatic.” he grunted, and pushed himself up against the headboard.

“You alright?” he asked, worry filling him over making Alfred bail him out. There were a hundred things that could have gone wrong with calling the man into a building recently blown up, least of all Alfred getting blown up himself.

Alfred shushed him, and Bruce could have sworn the sound came out more like one of Damian’s dismissive “tt’s” if it hadn’t been followed by an immediate, “There is no need to worry over me. Unlike some people, I practice caution when going into dangerous situations.”

The barb stung, even if it was untrue for this particular circumstance. Bruce could see the heart of the words, worry and fear over someone close. Bruce himself had reacted that way a number of times.

Alfred had reached the bed now, and settled his tray on an end table. He moved to hand Bruce a small plastic cup of pills he hadn’t noticed at first. Bruce stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“I’m sorry. I put you through a lot these past few days. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Nonsense. I will allow myself to be ‘put through’ many things if it means you coming home alive.” Alfred said, gently pulling away to deposit the cup into Bruce’s hand.

“It’s not fair.” Bruce said, “Not fair to any of you.”

The words didn’t change the fact that Bruce would keep going out, and would keep returning battered and bruised. They didn’t promise a cease to the laying on of worry. Bruce couldn’t do that. Batman was creating waves of good, and no matter how unfair it was for his family, he’d continue to go out and help others.

He didn’t have to say any of that to Alfred. They’d had the conversation hundreds of times.

Neither of them said anything now as Bruce downed the pills. Then he took a deep swig of tea, just hot enough to be pleasant, handed to him by Alfred.

The man hummed, also not wishing to go down the well trodden road, and sat in the chair pulled close to the bed. The book from the tray found its place in his hands, unopened but turned over and over in palms before it was set on Alfred’s lap in favor of his own tea.

Bruce reached out for Alfred’s free hand without thinking, a sudden need to comfort and be comforted taking him. He didn’t know how to word it, or he did, but it was such a childish impulse he almost didn’t want to act on it. In any other situation he’d laugh and tell his hesitating kid to join him, but he was not the father in this situation.

Alfred seemed to realize what Bruce needed, even if he never spoke it aloud. Sometimes Bruce thought Alfred knew him better than he knew himself. Alfred didn’t hesitate to set his tea aside and settle into the bed next to Bruce, resting against the headboard. He replaced the book in his lap and cupped the mug in his hands.

They didn’t have to be snuggling, Bruce just needed Alfred there, and they both understood that. Bruce sipped on his own tea and turned to look out the window. It was still dreary and grey, and a light rain had started, plinking against the glass of the window. He hoped, maybe even felt, it was on the cusp of blooming into a storm all it’s own.

“I kept dreaming of storms.” Bruce said, breaking the quiet, “Of how as a kid I loved them, how they fascinated me with their strange wildness and booming thunder.”

He could hear the rain now as it pitter pattered against the windows. The wind had picked up, scratching limbs against brick, and shaking them together in the start of a symphony.

“I seem to remember a time you were so fascinated that you ran out into the storm with little care for colds or that fine school suit of yours.” Alfred said, his own attention going to the window.

Bruce smiled at him, “I sure learned my lesson that night.”

“Oh?” Alfred asked, a merry twinkle in his eye, “Then you did not sneak downstairs to stare out the largest window you could find the very next evening?”

Bruce laughed, “At least I wasn’t alone either time. Not for long.”

“Never.” Alfred said, tone gentle.

Bruce leaned against him, letting his head rest on Alfred’s shoulder. Outside thunder rumbled and the rain picked up speed, building into something greater. 


End file.
